


What Dreams May Come

by turnedherbrain



Category: Humans (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-07 14:51:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14673414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnedherbrain/pseuds/turnedherbrain
Summary: Missing scene for 3.02. Spoilers for s3 eps 1-2.





	What Dreams May Come

**Author's Note:**

> While Leo recuperates, he is encouraged by Anatole to write down what he remembers of his organic memories.

‘The brain is an organ, but it acts like a muscle,’ explained Anatole once again. ‘If you don’t exercise that muscle, it will eventually atrophy through lack of use. Your organic memories are there – inside you. You need to work harder to bring them out.’

Leo turned away from his well-meaning doctor and looked out of the window, screwing up his face in that characteristic, pensive way. Viewed through the reflective glass, the outside world presented the same scene as yesterday. But he knew that wasn’t true; that everything had changed, turned upside down.

He wanted to be up and active, while Anatole insisted he dig deeper inside himself – down and down, recovering memories like scant diamonds in a black-as-pitch mine.

He was tired, whereas Anatole was not. The difference between them was emphasised at this late hour in the day: Leo flagging, physically and mentally, from his memory training; Anatole still placidly offering guidance, his power at a healthy 42%.

Leo trusted in Anatole. He was gentler than Mia, more incisive than Niska, even calmer than Max. Leo suspected that he had adopted this persona to ensure his survival. He had no choice but to treat those in the synth ghetto, the all-too-human Leo included.

‘Write down what you remember from the memory training today. Include as much detail as you can. The more precise you can be, the better.’ insisted Anatole, placing his splayed fingertips on the bedcover. His immaculate, artificial nails were carefully maintained, despite the grime of the railyard.

‘I write it down – then I’ve forgotten by the time I wake the next day. What use is that?’ argued Leo, semi-sullenly. He knew that really, what Anatole was asking him to do would benefit him. He was simply tired, and wanted to sleep. His side ached. His neck ached. An old scar; a newer one. Every conscious part of him longed for a dreamless sleep.

But he would do as Anatole suggested. Now that he had an organic, human memory, he could no longer rely on his crystalline recall. He would have to work hard to remember. Taking a stylus and tablet, he described his memories from that day: the ones he’d dredged up and reviewed from the muddled depths of his mind. He gave each a name and a number, as Anatole had suggested: an artificial form of filing system for his semi-remembered past.

 

 **_Memory #109: Niska’s Lesson_ ** _  
_

_‘Why don’t you pay more attention?’ Niska’s startling green eyes stare at him, challenging. He counts to over 20 seconds before she blinks again._

_‘Because Shakespeare is no use to me,’ he begins, protesting. ‘It’s old words. It’s…’_

_‘Listen,’ persists Niska, and reads him the passage from the play again. ‘How do you think Hamlet feels?’_

_‘Tired?’ He suggests. Niska nods, encouraging. He knows her well – she won’t give up until he’s understood. ‘He feels abandoned. Alone. Wrecked, because of his father’s death. Vengeful.’_

_‘Yes,’ replies Niska, giving him a slight smile – a rare note of encouragement. He has done well, and she is happy. ‘Now you understand. Hamlet is inclining towards inaction, but you know what he really needs to do, to cleanse his soul? He needs to act. To take revenge.’_

_Max glances up from his patiently read-through playscript. ‘Should **we** take revenge, if someone has harmed us, or our family?’_

_It is just the type of question that Niska loves. ‘If that person harms someone close to us? Yes. If I was in Hamlet’s situation, I would not hesitate. I would take revenge. Wouldn’t you?’_

_Max shakes his head, slowly but decisively. Niska turns away for a moment, disappointed that she hasn’t taught them what they really need to know._

**_Memory #110: Max and The Leaf Tower_ **

_They are in the woods, amongst tumbledown leaf-fall. Golden late-afternoon light filters through the low branches. It is after their lessons have finished._

_Max thumbs a knotted whorl in the trunk of a nearby tree. ‘A fault?’_

_‘No. An identifier. Each one of these trees is unique, individual,’ He says to his brother. He is always there to guide Max – to show him the best way. ‘There are caves and wellsprings around here: just under the ground.’ He crouches, touching the mossed earth. ‘They have been there for thousands of years.’_

_‘How long will we be around for?’ questions Max, in all innocence._

_‘Not that long, Maxie. Not that long,’ he replies: the boyish sage. Seeing Max’s face, he decides that they have had enough of philosophy for one day. ‘How about we build the biggest pile of leaves yet, and see if we can both balance on the top?’_

_Max nods, anticipating Leo’s delight in the game. He estimates that there are more than 3,571 leaves in their immediate vicinity. If they stay here for over 8.5 hours, they can gather them and build a leaf tower over 168 metres high. It is an imprecise calculation._

_As he bends to gather the first of the leaves, he is surprised to see Max aiming towards the house again._

_‘Max. MAXIE!’_

_Max turns back, unperturbed. ‘Yes, Leo?’_

_‘Where are you going?’ he shouts._

_‘To find a ladder,’ insists Max sincerely. ‘We will need an extra-tall one, to reach the top of our tower.’_

_And Max walks off with measured steps, through the leafmeal and brittle twigs that cover the forest floor._

_He shakes his head in amusement, then returns to picking up the leaves, making a growing pile in his inexpert but determined way._

**_Memory #111: Mia’s Dinner_ **

_Max always eats with them. At least, he thinks as much, from the few memories he has of family mealtimes. Max doesn’t need to eat, of course, but he knows that Leo likes the company. Mia too._

_Now, she is watching while Leo scoops up mashed potato and gravy from the cottage pie she has made. She followed the recipe scrupulously, and made sure it was the optimum temperature. She can’t taste it though: her receptors are not that refined._

_‘Is it nice, Leo?’ she asks, observing the mounds of potato rapidly disappearing._

_‘Mmmm. Yes,’ he replies, hardly looking up, but speaking through hurried mouthfuls. ‘It’s delicious.’_

_Always concerned for my welfare, he thinks. Always making sure I eat right and sleep right and dress up warm and study hard. But he sees that her care comes from a deep-down, inextricable love, bound up with her like ivy growing round a branch._

_(And he has another memory… another memory of Mia. One that he hasn’t written down yet. One he hasn’t even started to tell Anatole about. But he’s seen it, in his mind’s eye, over and over. It is a stark replay of his panicked seconds-into-minutes under the lake. Mia’s hazy figure swimming through the grey-green water, diving down towards him with single-minded purpose. Coming to save him.)_

**_Memory #112: Father_ **

_‘No. No, no. This is the last time,’ his father is telling a nurse._

_He can see through the toughened glass. They are… somewhere official. He doesn’t recognise this place, but everything smells disinfected and looks far too gleaming white._

_His father comes back to him through heavy swing doors, squats down in front of him, takes hold of both his hands: an uncharacteristic gesture._

_‘Leo?’_

_‘Mmmm hummm,’ he mumbles. He’s too grown-up to cry, but he can feel the tears still threatening to come. Seen through his hastily wiped eyes, his father’s face is slightly blurred._

_‘Leo. We need to go home now. What would you like for dinner?’ asks his father, still crouching low._

_‘Fish. And chips.’ Comfort food._

_‘OK. How about we pick it up on the way back? And I have a surprise for you.’_

_‘What is it?’ He can’t help but answer petulantly; he is fighting off too many emotions._

_‘It’s something – someone – very special. I hope you’ll like her.’_

_On their return journey, he slouches in one corner of the back seat, looking through the misted glass as the scenery unreels. He draws a smiling cartoon face in the middle of the passenger window. He wonders what the surprise will be.What **she** will be. _

_  
_

**_Memory #113: ???_ **

_(This memory is different; more fragmented. It is mainly sensation: a cascade of turbulent emotion when he recollects this moment. He hesitates, wondering whether to write it down, then deciding that he will. He will ask the others what it means later.)_

_A woman is with him, dressed in plain overalls. They are in a field. They begin to run. He holds onto her hand, dragging her behind him, trying to outrun their pursuers. He only sees what she looks like in a snatched glance over his shoulder, as they run in inefficient tandem. She has brown hair, and stares back at him unflinchingly, openly. Trusting him._

_(She means something to him… he knows that. But he doesn’t know what.)_

 

Less than an hour later, the slowly-sloping nightfall turning the sky grey-black, there was an expectant knock on the door, and Mattie – always Mattie – came in. This was her sanctuary: her escape from the reality that pressed on her. She looked forward to the relative tranquility of Leo’s room.

She was glad to see him sitting up: after months of disquieting nothingness when he’d laid there unmoving. How ironic it was now, that while she would trade anything to forget, he would do anything to return to that unforgiving, absolute recall.

Mattie ignored the uncomfortable bedside chair, the greenish faux-leather fabric sunk with her constant vigil while she'd waited for him to wake. Instead, she perched on the bed, reaching over to steal one of Leo’s energy bars from the bedside cabinet.

‘Hey!’ he mock-admonished her. ‘Stop stealing my snacks. I’m growing.’

‘Growing… how?’ she laughed, tearing open the wrapper. Feeling a hard oblong beneath her, she pulled out the tablet. Leo had abandoned it on the bed, when he was trying to remember more about the female synth in his fractured memory.

‘More of your memory diaries?’ Mattie asked. ‘What’s this one? ‘Memory #113…’’ She started to read. Then she deliberately bent lower over the tablet, so he couldn’t see her face blanch. Mattie and Mia had talked about this eventuality, over and over. She was more than well-rehearsed. Yet she still felt panicked at the chill realisation that Leo was remembering. Remembering **_her_**. Remembering Hester.

‘I’ve been meaning to ask you, Mattie,’ asked Leo, taking the tablet from her grasp. ‘This memory. I’ve had it a few times now. Have you any idea who this is, or what it means?’

Mattie hesitated. There were so many words she could say right now. So many phrases that she could speak to make him realise, to help him overcome. But she didn’t: ‘I don’t know, Leo. The description doesn’t sound like anyone I recognise.’ And she leant across the bed, plumping his pillows so that he could sit up more comfortably. 

Leo felt Mattie’s temporary closeness, her breath warming his shoulder. She had been here the whole time he was unconscious: Max had told him that – months and months and months. She was still here now. He trusted her implicitly.

He thought maybe he didn’t need to hold on to these partial wisps of memory, fluttering down like feathers from the sky. Because she was more important to him than insubstantial scenes from his past. He wanted to be with her fully, in the here and now.

Leo put the tablet down with a firm finality on his bedside table, smiled at Mattie, and said: ‘Tell me what’s going on in your world.’

‘Move over,’ said Mattie. And he shifted gladly to make space, right alongside him.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from Shakespeare’s ‘Hamlet’: ‘To sleep, Perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub / For in that sleep of death what dreams may come’


End file.
